they push, we shove.

the possibility that I, in fact, will go nowhere. that my endless hope will lead me to dead ends and my naïve nature will feed me lies when all I ever will be is restricted. that there are bars standing tall in front of my eyes but to me, they are invisible, and you can only push so hard against metal until they push back. and as they push, I shove. eventually, I will be thrown against cement so hard, my heart will crack, and my heart is fragile as it is, barely intact. that eventually, the stampedes will kill my soul and this hope will be a lie I have fed myself with my own two hands. the possibilities are, endless. the hope remains. the insecurities begin to pour rain through the throbbing arteries surrounding my heart as I clench my breaths and pray, they dissipate.